


Pedicure

by FifteenDozenTimes



Category: Sparks Nevada Marshal on Mars, The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: F/M, Foot Fetish, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/pseuds/FifteenDozenTimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparks had forgotten Croach was even in the room, he’d been so quiet readin’ his book for so long. From the look on her face, Red forgot, too. Croach’s voice is lower than usual, breathier than usual, and when Sparks looks over at him his cheeks and chest are shaded purple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pedicure

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore.

Sparks is seriously considering falling asleep right where he is, on the floor with his back against the couch, when Red kicks him in the face. Not hard, but still.

“Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It hurt my _feelings_.”

“Want to paint my toenails while you’re down there?”

“Nothing would give me greater joy.” Red takes him at his word and tosses a bottle of nail polish at him. “You used to be better at sarcasm,” he says, as he scoots around to sit in front of her.

“You used to be better at understandin’ I don’t care.”

Fair point. Red leans back and sighs when Sparks takes her foot, goes a little boneless when he starts massaging that spot beneath her big toe where she gets achy. He does like pamperin’ her from time to time, no matter what he says.

“Why do you have pink nail polish?”

“’Cause it’s pretty, Nevada,” Red says, like it’s the stupidest question she’s ever heard. “And the saloon AI got involved in some kinda pyramid scheme. She was so proud of herself I thought I’d throw her a bone.”

“It is pretty,” Sparks says, and starts painting her nails with careful, precise strokes. Ain’t no use doin’ something if you ain’t fixin’ to do it right. “You shouldn’t encourage her, though.”

“I know.” 

Red rests her head against the back of her chair while Sparks works, looks awful close to fallin’ asleep herself. Sparks paints a toenail, massages a little, paints a toenail, massages a little, feels her relax more and more in his hands. He’s got her just about purring by the time he finishes her left foot, because he’s real good at this; he kisses the ball of her foot before he rests it in her lap, waggles his eyebrows at her when she looks down at him.

“Bagropa.”

Sparks had forgotten Croach was even in the room, he’d been so quiet readin’ his book for so long. From the look on her face, Red forgot, too. Croach’s voice is lower than usual, breathier than usual, and when Sparks looks over at him his cheeks and chest are shaded purple.

“This is the single most erotic event I have ever witnessed,” he says, sounds almost awestruck.

Red laughs and wiggles her toes, showin’ off for him. Croach shifts, spreads his legs a little, tilts his hips forward a little, and Sparks’ mouth goes dry. Croach is so turned on, so open, Sparks can see just a hint of his slit peekin’ out of the waistband of his pajamas, just soft purple skin and the smallest glimpse of his egg sacs, wet and waiting. Sparks could spend - has spent - hours lookin’ at Croach when he’s like this, open and needy and desperate, but it’s almost better now, better when he can’t really see as much as he wants.

Red kicks him in the face again. At least the nail polish is mostly dry.

“You gotta stop doin’ that,” Sparks says; she just laughs at him.

“I’m only half done,” she says, “and I’d hate for Croach to miss the rest of the show.”

“Right,” Sparks says. Right. Just keep goin’ like Croach’s breathing ain’t gone all funny, like he doesn’t know exactly how Croach’d feel around his fingers, around his cock, right now. Definitely painting toenails is the correct thing to be doing.

He looks up at Red before he starts again, maybe thinkin’ about asking if she could just wait for him to deal with the Croach situation first, but the look on her face - that particular smirk that only comes out when she’s feelin’ a certain kind of dirty - stops him in his tracks.

Red moans, long and loud and maybe not as exaggerated as it seems, when he starts massaging her right foot. Croach’s breath hitches, and then there’s a slick, squishy noise behind him he’d recognize anywhere. He ain’t gonna turn around, can’t look at that and keep doing what he’s doing. 

“That’s it,” Red says, low and throaty. Sparks takes a few deep breaths, calms himself down, and starts painting. Red keeps up her performance, moaning and whimperin’ and telling Sparks how good he feels, how much she loves his hands, until Sparks can’t really tell what’s real and what’s just show. 

He’s gettin’ nail polish all over her toes, makin’ a general mess of things, but Red doesn’t seem to care and he can’t really bring himself to, either. She’s not paying much attention to Sparks anymore, watching Croach with that dirty smirk and heavy-lidded eyes. 

Sparks finishes smearing color on her last toenail and gets the cap back on the bottle just in time, ‘cause he drops it when Red slips her hand under her waistband with a satisfied groan. Sparks starts to move her feet out of his lap so he can help her along, or help Croach along, or in some way insinuate himself into this situation in a mutually beneficial sort of way.

“Don’t,” Red says.

“Do _not_ ,” says Croach, at the same time.

“Seriously?”

“Please,” Red says, something she doesn’t say all that often, so Sparks just sighs and starts givin’ her the best foot massage of her life.

Sparks is usually the noisy one, but he’s starting to regret that, on account of now that he’s being quiet he gets to enjoy all these sounds he usually misses out on. Croach must be fuckin’ himself pretty good now, breath coming out in little gasps and sighs, slick sounds of his egg sacs shiverin’ around his fingers as his body clenches up to try and keep ‘em inside. 

Red’s arm’s moving fast and frantic as she works over her clit, probably that one spot near the top, just to the side, that makes her cry out and clutch at Spark’s hair when he focuses on it. Her moans just get lower, throatier, until they’re just vibrations comin’ straight out of her chest, and then she does somethin’ that makes her hips jump and her voice go high and sharp again.

Sparks ain’t never been this hard in his entire life. He should be chasin’ Red around with nail polish bottles, tryin’ to get her to succumb to a pedicure way more often. It might be his new purpose in life.

Croach lets out one of _those_ shouts, muffled by himself bitin’ his lip or his arm or somethin’, Sparks still can’t look, not if he intends to get out of this alive. Sparks knows that sound, though, knows exactly how Croach shouts when he comes; Sparks focuses on the other, subtler sounds, the little squishin’ noises that mean he’s resettlin’ his fingers inside himself as he calms down. Croach hates to feel empty, has been known to fall asleep with Sparks’ fingers or cock or Red’s artificial phallus still inside him.

Sparks wants to be inside him. There’s no good reason Sparks ain’t inside him right now.

Red jerks one foot out of Sparks’ grip when she gets off, leavin’ a hand free so he can reach down and deal with the situation’ threatenin’ to burst right through his pants. He’s barely gotten his hand around his stupidly hard cock when she bucks in the chair like a wild thing and manages to kick him for real this time, hard, right in the jaw. 

Sparks won’t ever, ever tell her he came like a rocket just after that; she keeps insistin’ he likes when it hurts, he keeps insistin’ he don’t, and he ain’t fixin’ to give her more evidence in her favor.

(It ain’t bad, though, the ache of his cock after comin’ nearly untouched, the ache in his jaw, radiatin’ through his body to meet somewhere in the middle.)

“Bagropa,” Croach says, after the long near-silence of the three of ‘em trying to catch their breath. 

“You said it,” Red says, and frowns at her foot. “Nevada, this ain’t up to your usual standard.”

“I was a little distracted.”

“Ain’t no excuse for shoddy workmanship.”

Sparks rolls his eyes and kisses the arch of her foot in apology. 

“Bagropa,” Croach says, again.

“I think we’d better get Croach to bed,” Red says, winks down at Sparks, “and see if we can’t give him back his vocabulary.”

“My vocabulary is fine,” Croach says, but he beats them both to the bedroom.


End file.
